Kill All Your Friends
by Moshing In Panem
Summary: The competition in the arena is going to be vicious, and Katniss needs all the sponsors and advice she can get. Luckily, she has the ever helpful Haymitch as her mentor.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER**: I do not own The Hunger Games! Otherwise, we'd see more Hayniss action. Reviews are welcome.

_Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning._

_I couldn't be more wrong._

Once lunch has ended, Haymitch leads me into the sitting room, his hand on the small of my back in the utmost platonic and casual and familiar and comfortable of ways. However, I become hyperaware of the fact that we're alone, once more. There's nothing wrong with time alone, really, and there's nothing wrong with time alone with Haymitch. Not from my point of view, in any case. Maybe I'm too much in favor of it.

The couch is a relaxing crème hue and leather—it's the least that one could provide in the Capitol, anything less would not qualify as a couch. Yes, Effie trained me well. How all of this knowledge was to help me in the arena? My guess was as good as anyone's… and his knee is flush against mine as he collapses beside me. He sits there, frowning at me for a while.

The manner in which his eyes, those grey Seam eyes, trace over me declines from scrutiny to a certain brand of recognition, mingled with curiosity. Of course, neither one of us dares to reference what almost transpired the last time were alone together. I shift rather uncomfortably in my seat, wondering just what is going on in that head of his.

"What?" I finally ask Haymitch, hoping beyond all rational hope that I can finally make sense of the conflict in my head. It doesn't make sense, but nowadays, nothing makes sense. I can't describe the yearning to know him, the desire to feel him, the confusion of roles, and slight disgust at his plague. I can't make sense of it, and on top of all these lovely feelings, there's a possibility that I could die very shortly, but I mustn't think of that, dammit, I've got to _stay alive_.

There's a vast silence. He gestures with his hands before they fall into his lap.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says, running his fingers through his hair, the same liquid smoke eyes penetrating my soul, and providing a window into his. How much does he know? Can he fathom? How much do I really know? How much can I honestly take… as something more? What happened before was only a mere ember of whatever dangerous emotion was currently simmering between the two of us. I returned his gaze, still, trying to gauge how much of this he was taking into account.

"In terms of your angle," Haymitch clarifies, but the tension does not go unnoticed. His face is calm, but there flickers something else – a fire inside. Of course he knows, but he does not acknowledge it directly. He's Haymitch—clever and charming, and in that case, dangerous. I shift in my seat again, restless for something and I have a sinking feeling that I really do know what I want, morality be damned.

"Volunteering for your sister was charming," he continues. "Your top score sets you apart, and that, couple with Cinna's design made you look…"

He pauses, trying to find an appropriate word, with a hesitance that was not induced by alcohol, rather, but by tact. Warmth spread across my cheeks.

"Fierce," he offers finally, rising from his seat and stretching. I can't help but notice the rustle of sinew beneath his finely tailored suit. "However, your persona tomorrow determines everything."

"Wow," I say in uncharacteristic jest, " You're actually right about something once."

As I had hoped, some of the tension is broken, and Haymitch cracks a smile.

"Well, sweetheart, you'd be surprised what you'll learn about me if you stick around long enough."

I smile back at him. "What's Peeta's angle?"

"Likeable," replies Haymitch, before a grin spreads across his face—with this grin, all sense of tension relieved goes out the window. "While you just come across as belligerent and hostile."

"I do NOT," I snap and he just laughs, infuriating me further.

"Katniss, please," responds Haymitch, hardly able to hold himself together as he chooses a crystal glass. " I hardly recognized the cheery Katniss on the chariot ride."

"Psh," I scoff, "Like you've given me any reason to be cheerful." Inside, however, I know that my sarcasm isn't just pure sarcasm. In fact, Haymitch had given me a reason to be cheerful, although it had been quite hard to fathom that he could have ever provided anything when he fell off of the stage the day of the Reaping. We understood each other—and this understanding I felt would be an important weapon in the Games. Among other things, Haymitch was from District 12 and he had succeeded. Horror of horrors, he had been Reaped, and he had won, something, that even in his decline, one could not just simply discount. If Haymitch noticed my lack of acidity next, he didn't mention it. Perhaps he was too busy perusing the Capitol's finest selection of alcohol.

After he decided on some dark and bloody elixir, he walks over to me, bottle in hand, simply shrugging as he swigs from a wine glass far too tiny. "You don't have to please me."

_Oh, but don't I?_

_Would I?_

_Could I?_

_Should I?_

I raise an eyebrow at the implications, wondering if they go unnoticed.

There is a pause on his behalf; he raises an eyebrow himself, adding in clarification, "I'm not going to sponsor you."

_Oh._

"But still," he says, draining the contents of his glass, eyes alight.

"Delight me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _The Hunger Games_! I wish I did though.

"Delight me."

A dare, no, an invitation, rather.

Those two simple words hold a plethora of meaning, so I choose the best sense of them, although pleasantry was never my forte.

"All right," I snap, my arms firm across my chest as we both make ourselves, well, a little too comfortable on the couch.

Haymitch assumes the role of Caesear Flickerman and I try to beguile him my colorful responses, to no avail. To be quite honest, I can't be clever or witty or charming really – in fact, ask anyone in District 12. Perhaps Gale or Prim would think differently, but every one else would say that my pleasantry is a physical impossibility, a paradox.

To Effie's greatest chagrin, all of the Capitol's etiquette and nuances are lost on me. I've always been more concerned with taking care of the basics, like food and water, not iridescent lilac liquid eyeliner and essence reductions. All of these sentiments become increasingly more apparent as our mock-interview proceeds.

"Okay, cut! Not only are you belligerent and hostile," Haymitch points out, his usual relaxed manner gone and his smile a mere ghost on his face as he paces back and forth across the oriental rug. He's more bewildered than amused. "But you don't really let on much, sweetheart."

"Why should I?" I retort, jumping up. "The Games are pointless. I'm sick of the Capitol and their supposed glory." _Dear Lord, I sound like Gale_.

"Then lie!" he offers, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Make something up!"

"Why should I?"I fire back.

"Well, you better learn, sweetheart, because you're about as charming as a dead slug." _Strike one_.

I cross my arms, leaning against a wall as he paces some more. I want to punch him in the face, but I hold myself back.

"Okay, look, how's this: try coming off a bit more humble."

"Humble?" I echo.

"Yes, sweetheart," says Haymitch, his voice dripping with trademark sarcasm. "I know that word's not even in your vocabulary." _Strike two._

"Humble is not even in my vocabulary?" I repeat, my voice even. "I know you did not just say that to me, Haymitch."

"And if I did?" he challenges, knocking back more alcohol, his eyes meeting mine.

I glare at him trying to form an appropriate response, but I find none. I hold the insults inside, waiting for the anger to pass. "Whatever," I say through gritted teeth. "All right," I concede.

But nothing's all right. The interview session recommences, and the prospect of gaining sponsors looks even dimmer. We run through a litany of personas like Haymitch runs through whiskey. We try the "cocky" approach. The "ferocious" approach is next; then we try "witty." We even try "funny," and then "mysterious." Haymitch started doing shots somewhere around "witty."

"You know what, sweetheart?" says Haymitch. "For the first time in my life—"

I purse my lips. _Yeah, right._

"—I give up. No, I'm serious. Try not to be so…"

"What?" I say, at my wit's end. Unconsciously, my hands curl into fists. I'm no longer leaning against the wall, and Haymitch is no longer pacing. In turn, I began to pace to keep myself from trying to kill Haymitch—because he'd most likely kill me first, I'm loathe to say—and he now sits, no, lounges, rather, on the couch.

"Belligerent."

_Strike three_.

I've had it with Haymitch, I really have. I'm about to rip his head off when he asks, not but not least, deadpan and quite serious, "Have you tried the sexy approach?"

_Excuse me?_

"Excuse me?" I verbalize, careful not to stutter, taken aback.

"Y'know," says Haymitch. "The sexy approach. Just try to act…"

"Sexy?"

"Exactly."

I try not to let his words phase me. I really do. Perhaps he's drunk. In fact, most of the time he _is_ indeed drunk. But it's too much. I mean, this is Haymitch Abernathy we're talking about.

Not sweet, endearing, seraphic Peeta Mellark, the flaxen-haired angel with enough competitive edge to woo the ladies. Not the dark and dark-haired Gale, who is approaching manhood, yes, physically and mentally, but is not quite, in fact, a man.

This is Haymitch.

_Who's been drinking_, I argue, but in my own mind I counter that he always does. So his tolerance level for alcohol must, at this point, be rather high. It's been a while.

_Longer than you've even been alive_, the voice in the back of my head warns, but some for reason, I don't really care.

"Sexy?" I echo again.

"Yes, sexy. That's… something I'm sure you're familiar with."

If I wasn't blushing initially, then I'm blushing now.

"Uh… hold on. Let me…"

But that second nature, that animal instinct that spurs me on during a hunt, kicks in and suddenly, without warning, our legs are a mess of alternating greys and I wrench his face towards mine by the very roots of his hair.

His face is centimeters away from mine: I can smell the wine on his breath, no, I can taste it, rather, and everything about our intimate proximity seems wrong and right and utterly dangerous. I am the Girl on Fire, and I hold an explosive fuse…

The ornate, golden handle of the door turns and I spring backwards with an agility and at a velocity that can only be learned from years of hunting in District 12. _With Gale_, I am reminded, but the overwhelming guilt that I should feel is absolutely non-existent. In fact, the only guilt that I feel is that I had not initiated things sooner.

Precision and accuracy aside (and without Cinna's assistance), I've never been particularly graceful. My elbow almost upends an esoterically artful lamp, whose neck was etched with various designs and wrapped in rigid and sharp bronze that resembles ivy.

My heart pounds as the door opens. One second too late… _One second too late…_

In marches Effie Trinket, all smiles and tiny teacups—in her hair. Her smile turns briefly to a visage of utter horror as the lamp sways precariously on its axis before I still it.

Effie beams at me. "Ooh, Katniss, good call! That's a Claudius Bridgeberg original." She then clasps her hands together. "It would have been a tragedy if it was damaged! I would not have been able to get there quickly enough in my new kettle-creepers."

For the first time since Effie entered, Haymitch and I exchange a look, half in relief and half in confusion. We both look down at Effie's shoes, and Haymitch coughs.

They are, well, interesting.

Enveloping her feet are two large, floral teapots on a chunky platform sole perfect for all sorts of Capitol curb-stomping. I give her a winning smile.

"Good call, then."

She returns the smile, but suddenly, it's a replaced by an expression of suspicion. My heartbeat speeds up a bit, a sinking feeling creeping in. She looks askance at Haymitch and me, and pauses before asking, "Is anything going on between you two?"

What gave it away? Our guilty little looks or the fact that Haymitch, ironically always dressed to the nine, looked a bit, well, roughed up? As in, his usually coiffed hair was in sixteen different directions and his tie was askew, among other things? That he looked hot and bothered?

There's an awkward silence before we both open our mouths to explain, but she simply dismisses our excuses with a wave.

"I knew it," she says with a sniff, eyes shut tight, hand pressed dramatically against her temple in distress.

My heart sinks. _Effie, I swear! _

"You guys don't like my shoes."


End file.
